


Team Bonding 101

by heelnev, SophinaBlackwood



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Dom/sub, Enemies to Lovers, Kayfabe Compliant, M/M, Masochist Mustafa, Roleplay, Subspace
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 09:41:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13948896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heelnev/pseuds/heelnev, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SophinaBlackwood/pseuds/SophinaBlackwood
Summary: After being put into a tag team together, Neville reluctantly agrees to a "team bonding" session at the gym with Mustafa. [RP]





	Team Bonding 101

**Author's Note:**

> This is an RP between [heelnev](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heelnev/pseuds/heelnev) and [SophinaBlackwood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SophinaBlackwood/pseuds/SophinaBlackwood)!
> 
> heelnev wrote Neville, and Sophina wrote Mustafa. Each new double break and indentation is a change of POV.
> 
> We hope you enjoy this as much as we had fun writing it!!

  


     Today was a monumental day.

Mustafa couldn’t wipe the grin off his face as he waited against the outside wall of the gym, a thick 205 Live branded sweater over his favourite Jimmy's Famous Seafood sleeveless workout top and tight black leggings. In his hands were two black coffees that he’d picked up on the way. He was desperate to drink one now, but that would be rude and he had to make sure this workout session today went perfectly.

His private workout session with the King himself.

The gym was a twenty-five minute drive from the arena, so there was absolutely no chance anyone else from the roster would be there. Not that Mustafa was embarrassed to be seen with Neville, he was worried of the opposite. He knew he shouldn’t take it personally. Neville would probably be embarrassed to be seen with anyone from the roster.

And Mustafa still _disliked_ Neville, of course. The only reason butterflies swirled around in his stomach, pushing him to the edge of nausea, was because Neville was not an easy personality to get along with. Mustafa was in fear of getting beaten up before the show if he made one misstep. Obviously.

“Stay positive,” Mustafa told himself, breathing deeply, “Who knows, you might make a new friend out of this whole experience.”

  


     How did Neville end up in such a horrible situation?

What was he doing teaming up with _Mustafa Ali_ of all people ? Which of the higher-ups looked at the two of them -- two men who couldn't be anymore different if they tried -- and thought, "Hey, they would make a great team!"? Whoever it was clearly had no idea what they were doing. If they had any idea of what worked, they would know that Neville deserved to be on his own, not teaming with such a loser.

Neville spotted Mustafa standing outside of the gym, and he rolled his eyes, shoving his hands in the pockets of his black hoodie. Only someone like Mustafa would suggest something as _ludicrous_ as "team bonding". They weren't a team by any means. Did he think this was going to be permanent? Even now, Neville was thinking about hopping back in his car and driving away just to get away from him. If he thought this was going to last any longer than one match, he was sorely mistaken.

Nevertheless, despite his complaints, Neville knew he couldn't just ditch him. He already came all the way out to this gym, so he may as well make the most of it. With a sigh, he began to shuffle over towards Mustafa.

  


     Just when Mustafa came to terms with that there was no way Neville was actually going to show up, the damned King himself was walking his way, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Mustafa’s chest clenched oddly, realising this was actually the first time they’d ever ‘hung out’ together. Alone. Away from the locker room.

 _He might actually murder me,_ Mustafa gulped.

“Neville!! Good morning!” Mustafa said brightly, holding out the cardboard cup holder, “I got us coffees, if you needed a pick-me-up.” Mustafa felt the outside of his lukewarm cup, frowning. “Though, they might be a little cool now.” 

“Are you ready for our workout? Excited, even?”

  


     Oh _God_ , there was that over-the-top cheeriness that Mustafa was known for. A little bit of pep was one thing, but Mustafa took it to a whole other level. This was the exact opposite of a good thing.

Though he would never admit it out loud, Neville was slightly impressed that Mustafa had gone out of his way to get them coffee. _He's far too eager for his own good..._ Neville thought as he took his cup from the holder. "Well, aren't you a gentleman..." He said, though there was no real kindness in his words.

"Excited? Hah. Yeah right," Neville scoffed. As if he would ever be excited to spend "quality time" with the so-called Prince.

  


      _He took it!_ Mustafa internally backflipped.

"No higher compliment than being called a gentleman from an Englishman," Mustafa smirked and took his own cup, throwing the cup holder into a nearby recycling trash can. The coffee was definitely on the cooler side now, but not at all awful. He took a moment to savour in the first sip, tilting his head back in delight.

“ _So,_ I was thinking of what kind of routine we could do on the drive over,” Mustafa said casually. That was a flat out lie. He’d been planning this entire thing long before he even tentatively approached Neville with the idea. “And I haven’t done a 9 Stages of Hell circuit for a while. Sixty seconds per station, two minute rest between rounds, four rounds and we keep a tally of our reps. Loser has to buy lunch.”

“What do you say?” Mustafa smirked, holding out his free hand to shake as they entered the threshold of the gym. “Or, we could do something boring since you know I’m totally going to beat your ass.”

  


      For the most part, Neville was tuning Mustafa out. He had no interest in even being there, so why should he put himself through the 9 Stages of Hell? With _Mustafa_ of all people? _I'm already in Hell just being here. No need to go any further than the first stage,_ he thought to himself as he took a sip of his coffee.

Neville was about to reject the offer and go with a more "boring" option when he caught Mustafa saying that he would beat him. "...I beg your pardon?" The quickest way to get Neville to accept a challenge was by claiming that there was no _way_ that he could win. "You really think that you stand a _chance_ against the King?"

  


     Mustafa could barely suppress the shit-eating beam that spread from ear to ear. This entire interaction was playing out nearly word-for-word from what he’d envisioned. He had already practiced this part in the shower multiple times.

Did Mustafa really think he stood a chance? Pound-for-pound against Neville? No fucking way. But he was already in the devil’s den, so why not poke the beast a bit.

“Tozawa did it,” Mustafa shrugged, nonchalantly signing in and paying the one-off gym fare. He leaned on the desk and gave Neville the most effortlessly charming look possible. “How hard could it be?”

  


     Thought he couldn't quite identify what it was, there was something about the cocky look on Mustafa's face that made Neville's heart skip a beat, and he swallowed. He focused all of his attention on signing in, not wanting to even look at him or that smile for any longer than he had to.

 _Who does this guy think he is?_ Neville wondered. In a way, Neville felt bad for him. Mustafa was yet another person who simply didn't know his place. Luckily, Neville was there to put him in it.

"That's because he's the self-proclaimed 'Stamina Monster'. It's only natural that he'd be able to do it. You, on the other hand..." Neville looked him over from top to bottom. " _What_ are you supposed to be?"

  


     He may have imagined it, but Mustafa swore he just saw Neville blanch a little. The response was surprising. He really expected Neville to flat out deny Tozawa’s victory over him, but there he was, rightfully acknowledging the defeat. Selective honour, Mustafa added to his laundry list of Neville traits.

“Who am I?” Mustafa lead them to the men’s locker room and pulled his sweater over his head, depositing his backpack, keys and wallet into one of the cubbies. He untangled his messed up hair from his bun to let the locks fall around his neck and brushed a thread off his bare bicep. 

“I am Prince Mustafa Ali, Descendant of Pakistan Royalty, Chicago-Raised, Disciple of Peace and Paladin of the Light, Indie Wrestling Visionary, Lord of Fanart and soon-to-be Biggest Pain in Your Ass,” he leaned closer to Neville so they were at eye-level, and quirked a brow. “ _Not_ self-proclaimed.”

  


     For whatever reason, Neville found himself staring at Mustafa for just a little bit too long as he took his hair down, watching as it fell down to his shoulders. Before he had a chance to look away, Mustafa was suddenly in his face, far too close for his liking, rambling about something that Neville couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to. Not when there was something even more pressing on his mind — the fact that a mere _peasant_ had the audacity to stand this close to him.

Neville finally managed to take a step back and unzipped his hoodie, haphazardly tossing it into a cubby and shaking his head. “The hell do you mean by ‘soon-to-be’...” He grumbled. _As if he isn’t already a thorn in my side..._

  


     Mustafa threw his head back to laugh at that. "The man has jokes!" he proclaimed, almost proudly. Suddenly, Mustafa felt a pulse of adrenaline through his body, anticipating their friendly competition as profoundly as he would a wrestling match. It had him literally bouncing on the balls of his feet with excitement.

"You ready, King? I greatly look forward to watching you fail to put me in my place."

  


     Neville rolled his eyes for what had to have been the millionth time that morning. What the hell was Mustafa so giddy for? How long had he been looking forward to this? _What a loser._

Neville inhaled sharply through his nose at Mustafa’s little comment. “I’m more than ready to destroy you, _Ali_.”

  


     It was off-peak time, after the start of a normal work day but before lunchtime, and thanks to that, the weight room was empty save for one woman on an ab machine. Mustafa sourced a small whiteboard and placed it near the weightlifting platform, writing Neville and his own name with numbers one to four down the side to tally their reps after each round, slashing off the bottom for the total. He mentally went through what he needed to set up for the 9 Stages of Hell circuit.

"Can you please set up the bar for deadlifts? Whatever you're used to doing," Mustafa ordered politely, then dashed off to find the heaviest medicine ball the gym owned.

  


     Neville watched as Mustafa ran off, and he clicked his tongue before doing what he had been told to do. _300 seems fine._ He thought, though he snickered to himself. _Or maybe that's a little much for the dear Prince? He might not be able to handle it._

He took a quick glance at the nearby woman before focusing his attention elsewhere. _She's a lucky lady. She gets to witness Ali get utterly destroyed by the King._

  


     By the time Mustafa had run around setting up the TRX straps, dumbbells, raised step, medicine ball, plate and kettle bell in a neat circle, he was already quite warmed up. He took the time to stretch out his arms, his legs and his hip flexors. Finally, he stretched his entire body out as high as possible, then let his arms fall to his sides with a pleasant sigh.

"Alright, Neville," Mustafa held his hand out, just like they used to before 205 Live matches back in the day. "May the best man enjoy a delicious, expenses-paid lunch."

  


     As Neville was doing his own stretches, he found himself staring at Mustafa again. More specifically, he found himself staring at the small bit of skin that was exposed when he stretched his body up. _Would it kill him to find a properly fitting shirt?_ Neville frowned.

He quirked an eyebrow at Mustafa's outstretched hand, looking from it to Mustafa and back down again. And, just has he had always done during their 205 Live confrontations, Neville shook his head, not bothering to shake his hand. "You're going down."

  


     "Some things never change, do they?" Mustafa smirked, setting the 60 second interval timer on his watch. "Go!"

Mustafa started halfway through the circuit, so they wouldn't obstruct each other. That meant the deadlifts were his third exercise. His eyes flicked over to the barbell Neville had set up. _Jesus, that has to be at least 300. I wish I brought my back brace,_ he thought nervously. Maybe he should have put Neville in charge of getting the plates and kettlebells.

**BEEP BEEP BEEP**

Mustafa jumped up from pushups and grabbed the medicine ball, slamming it hard enough so he could catch it at a half-squat. Anything to make the exercise more efficient so he could rack up more reps. 

**BEEP BEEP BEEP**

Mustafa caught his breath. _87 reps so far._ He was making really good time. He prayed he could keep up the pace. _Deadlifts time._

He lined himself up in front of the barbell, gripped it tight, ground himself, prayed, then burst up with all the power in his legs and.... **BANG**.

Mustafa stared at the barbell in fear. He barely got it five inches off the ground. _Focus, Ali._ Damnit. If it wasn't a full rep it wasn't going to count, but maybe if Neville hadn't seen..

Mustafa glanced up to Neville, hoping he didn't look as shaken as he felt.

  


     Neville decided to go through the circuit in order, starting with the pulldowns. Though he should have been focusing on his own workout, he couldn't help but keep looking over at Mustafa. Just from what he could see, it looked like Mustafa was already ahead of him -- much farther than he had any right to be. _This is bad._ Neville shook his head slightly, wrapping up what he was doing and moving on to the next thing.

As he was about to start the step ups, he heard a loud bang, and he quickly looked around in an attempt to locate the sound of the noise. He caught Mustafa staring at him, looking only slightly frightened. On any other occasion, Neville would have gladly taken the time to make a rude comment, but he had work to do, so he kept his comments to himself for the time being. He decided that he would say what he had to say _after_ he successfully put Mustafa in his place. _So long as he keeps that up, I should have this in the bag._

  


     Their eyes met but Neville went straight back to work. Mustafa's whole body felt warm at how serious Neville was taking their friendly competition. A lot of people liked to laugh or turn their nose up at Mustafa's passion. The only opponent he'd really found who matched his intensity so perfectly was Neville. That's why he was thrilled to find out they'd be tagging together. Of course, Neville had been be against the idea initially, but Mustafa was certain with the right amount of team building, the two of them could be absolutely unstoppable.

Mustafa truly believed that.

Those hopeful thoughts alone chorused through his veins and with an unavoidable grunt, Mustafa pulled the barbell up the full rep, and dropped it safely. _88_. He kept thinking about Neville and himself. _89, 90._ Teaming like a dream. _91, 92, 93_. Dynamic like second nature. _94, 95, 96_. Knowing each other so well they no longer had to communicate by voice- _97, 98, 99_ \- they just felt each other as an extension of themselves. _100._

**BEEP BEEP BEEP**

Mustafa nearly collapsed moving onto shoulder raises. Thank god the majority of this circuit was arms forced. Mustafa was an arms and cardio guy, and Neville was, well (Mustafa's eyes near hungrily raked over Neville's glistening skin) an _everything_ guy.

  


     As Neville moved on to the push ups, he once again found himself looking over at Mustafa. He knew he shouldn't be letting his concentration waver, but with every time he pushed up he couldn't help but look over at him. Why did Neville care so much? He had spent so much of his time in the Cruiserweight division disliking Mustafa and wanting to be as far from him as possible, yet here he was, spending a good part of his workout staring at him.

Now that he thought about it, this was what it was like backstage, too, wasn't it? Sometimes Neville would be warming up and prepping for his match, and Mustafa would be nearby, speaking to Cedric or someone else on the roster. Neville's eyes would practically be glued to him, though he was never able to figure out _why_.

What about Mustafa was so interesting? What drew Neville to him? Mustafa was, in a way, the exact opposite of Neville -- there were some similarities that even Neville had to admit were intriguing, yes, but other than that, there was nothing. Mustafa was so nice while Neville was... decidedly not so.

 _Whatever_. Neville huffed. Whatever the reason, it wasn't worth dwelling on.

  


     Thoroughly panicked with his run-in with the deadlifts, Mustafa was wholly focused on himself for the remainder of the round, even though he was desperate to flick a couple of glances Neville's way to see how he was doing. Frustratingly, he still hadn't hit his second wind when non-stop beeping screeched from his watch to signal the end of the round. He tapped the watch to silence it before collapsing back onto a nearby bench to squirt water into his mouth (most of it missed his mouth and slicked down his neck but at this point, he didn't care).

"How many did you get?" Mustafa asked, breathing heavy. The women who was on the ab machine had now moved to the bicycle and was idling peddling as she watched the impromptu competition with great interest. Mustafa smiled, flattered, and thread his fingers slowly through his hair.

  


     Neville snorted at Mustafa's poor aim, and he grabbed his own water bottle, demonstrating to Mustafa how to take a proper sip before joining him on the bench. "Probably more than you, that's for damn sure."

Neville noticed that the woman was watching them, and he frowned at Mustafa's bashful reaction. What, was he trying to impress her or something?

  


     "Spoil-sport." Mustafa grinned at Neville, then reached over to grasp the whiteboard. "297 for me," he proclaimed, and wrote down the number under his name. If only he didn't waste so much time on the deadlifts, he could've gotten over 300. Even still, the count was still impressive, which was mostly thanks to how fast he was on arm arm and shoulder exercises. He passed the whiteboard and pen to Neville, not even trying to hide his air of smugness, "Go on."

  


     Neville's eyes widened when Mustafa announced his number. _Is he serious?_ Neville chewed his lip as he took the whiteboard and pen. He clutched the pen tightly in his hand, letting out a little grumble as he quickly wrote the number 296 down on the board, turning it away from Mustafa so he wouldn't see.

  


     Mustafa didn't want to Neville to see how desperately invested he was at Neville's rep counter, so he looked back over at the women on the bike, who immediately pretended to be invested in an subtitled episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians on the television. His expression quirked as Neville tried to hide his own score.

"Wait, no fair!" Mustafa laughed, playfully reaching over Neville to twist the board back in his direction. "O-Ohh," he said, suppressing the need to make a big deal out of it to a) not embarrass Neville, and b) because they were no way near done yet and there was no reason to celebrate just yet. 

Mustafa glanced back to Neville to gauge his reaction and froze. The space between them was far smaller than he had originally thought, and Mustafa realised how tense his body had become. He became acutely aware of his palm that had been pressing into Neville's thigh. _Oh, shit shit shit!_

  


     "Don't--" Neville tried to retort as Mustafa grabbed the board, but he was too distracted by the hand that was suddenly on his thigh, and his mouth dropped open as he stared down at it. _Does he... Does he realize what he's doing?!_ He thought. Mustafa was so close to him, far closer than he had any right to be. Neville wasn't sure what he should be more embarrassed by -- the fact that Mustafa had beaten him in terms of reps, the hand on his thigh, or how hard his heart was currently pounding.

  


     Neville looked extremely distressed. Shit, Mustafa really overstepped the line here. 

"Sorry," Mustafa murmured, genuinely apologetic, and stole back his hand, rubbing it self-consciously, "I would never want to make you uncomfortable." He opened his mouth to continue trying to dig himself out of the hole he found himself in but his watch beeped to signal the start of round two. "Let's just get back into it, yeah?"

Mustafa walked back to his station, far less pep in his step than before. _God, that.._ What was that? Neville's presence had always been overwhelming to Mustafa, but in a standoffish and grouchy kind of way. This was... a different kind of overwhelming. Mustafa tried to shake the image of Neville's defenseless expression just now; tried to banish the heady electricity that had shot into his arm.

"Pushups, pushups, pushups," Mustafa reminded himself in a murmur, counting out the new set of reps from zero. Damn, he was off his game now, completely shaken. He couldn't stop glancing over to Neville. _Shit, I gotta focus._

  


     "H...Hm," Neville said in response to Mustafa's apology. He cleared his throat, standing up from the bench and watching for a moment as Mustafa went to his station before heading back towards his own, starting in on his routine. _I can't let him beat me again. Especially not by one lousy rep._ If Neville ended up losing the whole thing by one, he was never going to hear the end of it.

Neville knew he couldn't let Mustafa get in his head like that. He did he plan on winning this little competition if he was going to be thrown off by one little freak accident like that? Mustafa had slipped up, and he apologized for it. That should have been the end, but Neville simply couldn't get it off his mind that easily.

  


     Mustafa was prepared for the deadlifts the second time around, but was already significant amount behind his reps from the last round. 15 reps on the excruciatingly heavy barbell was all his body could manage before he collapsed to one knee, using the last 20 seconds of the minute to catch his breath. Neville seemed more motivated now, and it would only make sense after seeing that he was slightly on the backfoot from round one.

There was something awe-inspiring and motivating about watching Neville workout. He didn't seem to let anything else around him affect him, just focusing on himself and his own goals. _Sexy, even._

**BEEP BEEP BEEP**

Mustafa choked on his own shocked inhale, moving onto the next station. That was an interesting adjective to pop into his mind. Yes, Neville _was_ a very attractive person, that was an objective fact, but.. "Argh," Mustafa groaned, slapping his cheeks a few times. He could get distracted by Neville's curved thighs and thick arms _after_ the workout.

  


     Neville caught sight of Mustafa on one knee, and for a moment he stopped. He felt an odd urge to go and check on him, make sure he was okay, but he knew he couldn't waste any time. After all, what if this was all part of a plan to further distract Neville? He wasn't about to fall for any of Mustafa's tricks. _Not today._

Now what the hell was he doing? Was he... slapping himself? _This workout's starting to get to his head, I think._ Neville shook his head before lifting the hem of his shirt up to wipe the sweat off of his forehead, dropping it back down and heading to the next station.

  


     The weighted plate nearly slipped out of Mustafa's sweaty hands as Neville used his own shirt to wipe himself down. Neville's muscles were bulging and flushed from the intense workout, contracting tastefully against his stomach as he breathed in and out with deep heaves. This was… bad. Mustafa was definitely turned on by this whole situation, the realisation blind-siding him. He immediately looked elsewhere as Neville dropped his shirt.

Mustafa focused on his shoulder raises, panicked thoughts drowning out the rep counter in his mind. And it was so strange, because it's not like they hadn't wrestled together before? Their sweaty bodies slicking and sliding all over each other. _Damnit, brain!_ But this was different, there was no immediate threat here. Oh god, he couldn't let Neville find out that he was smitten. There goes any chances at their tag team. Neville would probably beat him up from the sheer impertinence.

When Mustafa moved onto kettlebells swings, his gaze stayed firmly in the middle distance. How many reps was he up to now? 98? 99? 

_Oh, what does it matter anymore, I'm a dead man either way._

  


     Neville could have sworn that he saw Mustafa quickly looking away as his shirt fell down, but he told himself that he _had_ to be imagining things. There was no way Mustafa was staring at him, right? What reason would he have had? Just by looking at him, it was obvious that he was busy doing his own thing. And besides, it wasn't as if Neville had specifically done that just to get his attention, right? _Right?_

He somehow managed to keep his gaze locked on the floor as he did his push ups, though that didn't mean that Mustafa wasn't still on his mind. Christ, he never had to deal with this whenever he was working out alone. He managed to (for the most part) avoid running into any of his co-workers whenever he went to the gym, and as such his mind was able to focus on other things -- more specifically, his workout. Now that Mustafa was with him -- and, more importantly, now that they were competing with one another -- he was all he could think about. He wasn't sure how to feel about that. _How much longer until I'm free of him?_

  


     When the second round was over, Mustafa slumped on the bench once again, taking a short drink. He pulled up his shirt by the collar and wiped away the sweat on his face. He was honestly so wrecked emotionally and physically at this point, he wasn't sure if he was going to survive the last round.

"How are you feeling?" Mustafa asked Neville through heavy breathes as he wrote 231 on the whiteboard, just under his first result. "31.. I think," he murmured, holding the board and pen out for Neville.

  


     "Tired, but meh," Neville replied as he made his way over towards Mustafa, taking the board from him. "I'll live.”

He quirked his eyebrows up when he noticed Mustafa's number, and he proudly wrote 237 down under his first score. Even if he ended up losing this entire thing (which he wouldn't, because there was no way that would happen), at least he could say he beat Mustafa once.

  


     See, you always bounce back," Mustafa saw the number, smiling distantly. Ears aflame, he shook some locks out of his eyes. "King of endurance. I feel sorry if anyone had to go up against you in an iron man match."

  


     "Of course I do. I'm the King." Neville looked smug as he placed the board and pen down, hands on his hips. "Your little victory over me earlier was a fluke, that's all." Neville had to admit that he was a little curious to see if Mustafa could at the very least come _close_ to beating him again.

Where Neville's uncharacteristic vulnerability dampened his flame, the insinuation that Mustafa's tiny victory wasn't rightfully earned caused it to burn bright once more. Mustafa stood to meet Neville at eye-level, with a new glint of defiance in his eye. "A fluke? Those sure are big words coming from a crownless King."

  


     Neville looked Mustafa in the eye, a surprised (yet mildly impressed) look on his face at his words. "Those are some strong words coming from someone who hasn't even won a championship yet. You wanna call me 'crownless', fine, but at least I can say I've actually _had_ it. _Twice_ , no less." Neville smirked. "You haven't had a single match for the Cruiserweight title yet, have ya lad?"

  


     And here Mustafa could not help the holier-than-thou smile that spread from ear to ear. "Yet. Yet," Mustafa echoed, tapping the air as if the word 'yet' was a tangible thing in front of him. "Not yet, but soon. You can bet all your royal jewels on that."

His watch beeped to mark the start of the final round and Mustafa didn't bother walking to the other side of the circuit to start, just dropped and started doing push-ups at Neville's feet at a reinvigorated speed.

  


     "'I can bet my'-- I beg your pardon?" Neville asked incredulously. _Did he. Did he really **just** say that?_

Neville looked down towards the ground, torn between liking the way Mustafa looked down at his feet and hating his cockiness. _Is this how we're going to play? Fine. Let's play._ With that thought, Neville got down on the floor as well so that he and Mustafa were face to face, starting in with push ups of his own.

  


     "And so... it shall be... a Prince... will dethrone... a King," Mustafa breathed prophetically between pushups. Holy heck, Neville was fast, but it only pushed Mustafa harder. And this was it! This is it right here. That perfectly matched intensity that he couldn't find in anyone else, practically nose-to-nose with him right now. Mustafa laughed breathily as he continued- they had a match tonight and currently they were going so hard at this "friendly competition" it might as well be for the Cruiserweight Championship. He kept his head down, a couple tiny grunts slipping out just before the timer beeped at sixty seconds.

62, Mustafa thought in amazement, that had to be a personal best. He actually got his rep rate over one per second.

But no time to lose! Mustafa leapt over to the medicine ball to get on with the next exercise. His body entered an odd state, as it sometimes did during an exhilarating match, where the physical burn became like white noise, and his entire being felt lighter than air, like he could run forever and never need to stop. 

"You're done, King!" Mustafa yelled out, elatedly.

  


     Neville counted 64, and he took a moment to catch his breath and watch Mustafa practically skip over to the medicine ball. _He’s getting his hopes up for nothing._ Neville shook his head. Mustafa _had_ to know that this was a waste of time — there was no way he could possibly beat him. He was never able to do it on 205, and he most certainly won’t be able to do it now.

“I wouldn’t get cocky if I were you, _Prince_ ,” Neville retorted before hurrying off to do his step ups, gaze locked on Mustafa the whole time.

  


     Mustafa's heart skipped a beat at that, but he couldn't let it affect him now. Deadlifts were coming up and he had a new plan of attack. If this was a competition of quantity, the amount of energy that was getting taken out of him was far too wasteful when he could be using it on the smaller exercises. The most he got in the second round was 15 reps, he could easily make that back and more on kettle bell swings and step ups.

So, when his watch beeped again, instead of moving to the deadlift station, he walked over to the bench where they had sat between breaks, took a small sip of water and closed his eyes to breathe deeply.

  


     As Neville finished up with the exercise, he found himself a little thrown off by Mustafa taking a seat. _What’s this all about...?_ He wondered. Neville had a feeling that he was planning something, and the fact that he couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was bothered him more than it probably should have.

  


      **BEEP BEEP BEEP**

Between shoulder raises and kettle bell swings, Mustafa smashed out an extra 30 reps more than what he managed with his first go through, meaning he was already well on his way to hitting over 300 reps for the entire round. His entire body buzzed with excitement. The plan absolutely worked!

As he moved over to the TRX straps, Mustafa made sure to catch Neville's eye. "Already at 206, big guy, what was that about being cocky?" Mustafa said smugly, winking and blowing a little kiss to Neville for good measure. 

  


     Neville was about to move on to the next exercise when Mustafa caught his eye, and he frowned at him, his mouth dropping open when Mustafa blew a kiss at him. He silently prayed that he didn't look as flustered as he felt, and he swallowed, fists clenching at his sides. _He's scheming against you... This is all part of a plan to trip you up... Don't fucking fall for it..._

"Don't-- You-- You're all talk, you know that?" He finally managed to say.

  


     "I am?" Mustafa called out from the pulldowns. "207, 208, 209, 210, 211..." It was amazing how quickly he was getting through reps, motivated by successfully goading Neville. He seemed particularly thrown off by the impertinence of that little kiss. Fantastic bit of intel.

 _He really is going to kill me_ , Mustafa thought, perhaps a little too gleefully. Rattling Neville was far too fun for its own good. The consequences of that... potentially even more so.

  


     "God, _shut up..._ " Neville groaned, grabbing the medicine ball and holding it just a little bit too tightly. Great, now his concentration was even _more_ thrown off. It was already bad enough that he was distracted by Mustafa's... well, everything, but now that little kiss was on his mind. He _dared_ him to try that bullshit again...

"I sure hope I'm not distracting you!" Mustafa said sweetly in a sing-song voice. "How could you ever live it down if I beat you~"

  


     "Except you're _not_ going to beat me~." Neville replied, imitating Mustafa's tone as best as he could. _Come on, forget about him! Keep working! You're letting him distract you! This is what he wants!_ Neville scolded himself and went back to what he was doing, trying to channel his anger into his workout.

  


     "You're the best," Mustafa laughed offhandedly- _affectionately_ \- not even really registering exactly what he'd said as he moved to the dumbbell step ups. He was dripping in sweat by now, and his hair was sticking all over his face but he didn't have time to wipe it away now, there was work to do and Kings to defeat!

  


     "Damn right I am," Neville replied with a little smirk as he moved on to the shoulder raises. He was impressed by the compliment -- he figured that Mustafa would sooner gloat some more than actually praise his King for any reason.

 _Though, maybe he should be more focused on how he's presenting himself than me..._ Neville chuckled under his breath at the sight of Mustafa all sweaty. Then again, it wasn't as if he looked _bad_. If Neville were being honest, he thought Mustafa looked... good with his hair all over his face. Maybe even a little cute.

Neville would rather claim he wasn't a King before he actually admitted to himself that he found Mustafa to be cute, however.

  


     Mustafa's final station was thread the needle, and his entire body was aching for a break. Still Mustafa pushed on, despite how heavy his legs felt, how numb his arms were. He'd well cleared 300 reps at this point, and was fast approaching 350. _You can do this Ali. Show Neville that you can be a tag partner worthy of a King!_

**BEEPBEEP BEEPBEEP BEEPBEEP**

Mustafa dropped the ViPR and collapsed face first into the mats. For a moment he couldn't hear anything aside from the blood pumping in his ears, and the harsh rise and fall of his chest. Perhaps he went a little too hard for a 'friendly competition' but... _354 reps_. That had to be a new personal best. Even better than some of the drills he'd done at the police academy.

"I'm fucking dead," Mustafa wheezed. He tried to move an arm. Nope. Looked like he was going to have to stay here forever. How was he supposed to compete tonight?! He got so caught up in the competition, he forgot he has to work in a few hours.

  


     Neville had to admit that he was feeling just as tired as Mustafa was by the end of their workout, but he would be damned before he showed any weakness, and he instead opted to crouch down next to Mustafa, shaking his head and sucking his teeth. "He died as he lived. Being a thorn in my side," he remarked.

  


     Mustafa flopped onto his back and gave Neville the toothiest grin he could, staring up at him through a mess of hair. He reached his hand out weakly to the bench, "Water... please."

  


     Neville considered just leaving him there, but he knew that he couldn't do that ( _Can't win my match later if my partner is dead._ ), so he grabbed Mustafa's water bottle off of the bench, making like he was going to squirt some of it onto his face before normally handing it to him.

  


     Mustafa squirt the water bottle at himself, some of it getting in his mouth but most of it going everywhere but. After another few moments he sat up in a slump and looked over at the tally board, adding up the numbers in his head. 882 total for me. Massive. _Maybe... I stand a chance?_

"What did you get?" he looked up to Neville, still breathing heavily.

  


     Neville scoffed. "Probably more than you," he announced proudly, staring at the tally board with the confidence of a man who was _sure_ he'd just won. "I got 880." He wore a smug smile, crossing his arms. "And you, _Prince_?"

  


     Mustafa's mouth dropped open. Did he hear that correctly? Neville got 880? He'd... Mustafa was so certain there was no way he could win. In his heart of hearts he thought the feat impossible. And maybe Neville was not going at 100% capacity, which would be why, but still. _But still_.

He broke out into a smile, then a couple of chuckles and suddenly, Mustafa is lost in hysterical laughter. "I-I'm sorry," Mustafa apologized for the weird outburst, descending into a fit of laughter once more. His stomach hurt so much he had to roll onto his side and clutch it, shoulders shaking with the unbridled force of his laughter.

  


     Neville's smile slowly faded, his cocky expression being replaced with one of confusion (and a little annoyance). What was going on with him? Was there something funny to him about Neville winning? "What's wrong with you?"

His eyebrows scrunched together as Mustafa rolled around on the floor, and before he knew what he was doing he grabbed Mustafa by the shoulders, practically pinning him down. "What has gotten into you. Speak, lad! Explain yourself!" He ordered.

  


     Mustafa's heart flip-flopped involuntarily when he felt himself pinned down. He pushed his hair out of his flushed face and glazed eyes, staring up at Neville with a wry grin.

"I beat you by two," Mustafa said, like he didn't believe it himself, and held up two fingers as if that was enough to prove it. "I got 882 reps. I beat you, King."

  


     Neville's eyes grew as wide as saucers, and he blinked, staring disbelievingly at the two fingers Mustafa was holding up. He swallowed hard, shaking his head, his grip on Mustafa's shoulders tightened. There was no way. There was no _fucking_ way. He was lying. He _had_ to be. He made it all up. There was no way this was actually happening. "You're lying. I know you are."

  


     The fingers digging deep into his shoulders made Mustafa inhale lasciviously. Neville needed to stop that. He had no idea what he was doing to his body right now. The air in the room suddenly felt too thick, and Mustafa wondered if the woman on the bicycle was still watching, what she would be thinking of the two of them in this position right now.

Mustafa's hands encircled the ones on his shoulders, trying to pry the fingers away. " _Nev_ ," he said, trying to subtly warn him, but his voice came out utterly strained. Between the heated press of Neville dominantly over him, his handsome, fierce expression staring down at him. He was going to lose it in a moment, in a breath more, if Neville didn't let him go.

  


     Now Neville was even more confused. What was his problem _now_? Was he starting to become delirious? If that were the case, then maybe he had accidentally given Neville the wrong number before... Maybe Neville had actually won! (He knew it was wishful thinking, but it was possible.)

And why did he sound like that? Their workout must have taken more of a toll on him than Neville thought. Notably, however, he kept his hands where they were. "What? What's wrong with you?" He asked.

  


     Mustafa’s mind went blank- he couldn't take his eyes off Neville, taking note of the way that his chest moved up and down, up and down. Mustafa was not a person who was easily embarrassed but he was thoroughly humiliated right now. His entire body felt flushed, and not just from the intense workout they just did. 

_You thick-headed idiot, I want you to get off me before I'm fully hard in the middle of the weight room and you'll really regret it!!_

“ _Aahh_ ," Mustafa said hopelessly, followed by a hitched breath. "Ah, Neville, what’re we doing-?"

  


     The tone in Mustafa's voice surprised Neville, and he leaned back a little, his grip on his shoulders loosening as he opted to rest his hands on Mustafa's biceps instead. That was a pretty damn good question -- what WERE they doing? They had just finished working out, they were tallying up their scores, and now-- and now they were in _this position._ How did that even happen?

"Well, _you're_ acting weird..." Neville said in response. "I'm just sitting here trying to figure out what's wrong with you."

  


     Mustafa's eyes nearly bugged out of his skull as Neville's hands slid down to his biceps, and his stomach clenched immediately in response. Was he doing this on purpose? Surely this wasn't normal behaviour. Mustafa was all for a bit of rough-housing with the boys but that window had come and gone long ago. What kind of messages did Neville think he was sending right now?!

_What's wrong with me? I've just realised I'm desperately attracted to my unbelievably sexy mortal enemy and future tag partner, and he won't fucking stop touching me while looking like a confused puppy, that's what's wrong!!!_

Mustafa sucked in a careful breath, and averted his eye in shame. A guy holding an exercise ball walked in, froze when he saw them, then slowly backed out of the room. Mustafa looked back to Neville, wounded. "Could you not touch me, um, _like this_ -” he said, voice ragged and thick in his throat. “-in the middle of the gym?"

  


     Neville raised an eyebrow as the man walked out. Had he never seen a man pinning another man down in the middle of the gym before? _Coward_.

Neville swallowed, though, at Mustafa's request. "Oh, uh... My bad." He quickly took his hands off of him, holding them up for a moment before slowly lowering them to rest at his sides.

Though, there was something about this that Neville had to admit was very... _intriguing_ to him. Something about the look that Mustafa was giving him... excited him. He never thought that Mustafa would be capable of making him feel that way, but sure enough that was exactly what happened. _This day is just full of surprises, isn't it?_

Neville remembered how Mustafa had taunted him during their little competition, shooting him a wink and blowing a kiss at him. Mustafa had made it a point to fuck with Neville, so who said that Neville couldn't do the same? _Maybe the King should have a little fun with the Prince..._

He took a quick look around, ensuring that no one else was looking at them before he bent down to whisper in Mustafa's ear. "You don't want me to touch you in the gym. Would you rather I touch you... _elsewhere_? Somewhere more private, maybe?"

  


     Mustafa moaned so suddenly- so involuntarily- it was as if someone had just punched him in the gut. He threw a hand over his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut, though he could not ignore the twitch of his cock with each beat of his heart, until he was achingly hard.

He was fairly certain Neville was fucking with him right now. He just had to last out as long as Neville's bluff. There wasn't much Mustafa could do at this point, he'd already given himself away with that moan, so he met Neville’s pretty hazel eyes, holding his gaze.

"Neville," Mustafa whispered, through trembling lips. His hand found the material of Neville's sweaty top and he gripped onto it hard, the only source of moral support available to him. "T-This isn't quite what I meant when I said 'team bonding'." 

  


     Neville smirked. This was exactly the reaction he’d anticipated. “Hmm? What’s wrong, Prince?” He asked, running his thumb over Mustafa’s lower lip. “Isn’t this _exactly_ what you meant? You wanted the two of us to get along better, didn’t you? This is a good way for us to get to know each other. Every. Inch. Of each other.”

  


     Mustafa exhaled shakily. His tongue licked over his bottom lip, just where Neville had brushed it, and bit down, as if to savour the taste. Try as he might to stop it, his hips came up in a jerked moment- a mind of their own- pleading for more.

"Can we have this conversation somewhere else, _please_?" Mustafa whimpered, though his hand pulled down on Neville's shirt as Mustafa stared at his lips. 

_How sweet it would be to kiss a King?_

  


     Neville chuckled, licking his lips. God, Mustafa looked so pretty... Neville didn’t think _that_ word would pop up in his mind when thinking of words to describe Mustafa, but he didn’t mind. It was fitting, after all.

“Of course, Prince,” he said. “Where would you like us to go then, hmm? Name the place.”

  


     Mustafa looked around the room, and discovered the were completely alone. On the opposite side to the entry was a door with Massage Room on an A4 stuck to it.

"Look, I'm not picky," Mustafa rolled easily into a crouch, despite having just said he was physically dead a moment before (adrenaline was a hell of a drug). He took one of Neville's hands, locking their fingers together. "We should be able to look the massage room from the inside." He glanced Neville up and down hungrily. "Though, it doesn't seem like you care either way."

  


     Neville looked towards the door to the massage room, devilish smirk still on his face. “I like the way you think, Prince,” he said, holding Mustafa’s hand tightly. Holding his hand just felt... _right_. (Though he wasn’t sure if this was because of his arousal or if he genuinely enjoyed it.)

  


     Okay, shit, this was really happening.

Mustafa lead Neville to the threshold of the massage room, heartbeat practically pounding out of his chest. He tried the door... Open. And empty.

" _Lucky_ ," Mustafa whispered, pulling Neville inside. It was completely dark with the door closed, so he padded around for the lightswitch. "Can't see a thing..." 

  


     Neville blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he leaned back against the door, crossing his arms. “Hmm, we definitely need light. I want to be able to see your pretty face...” He cooed.

  


     The light flicked on just as Neville finished his sentence, so Mustafa had no second to hide the vulnerable shock at his face being called pretty. His brows furrowed and his eyes were wide as he stared at Neville with a hopeful desire. Between his legs was an aching heat to have him now, but Mustafa had to know, had to hear it from the King's own mouth..

"Do you want me, Neville?" he asked, voice wholly earnest. 

  


     Neville frowned at him. Why was Mustafa suddenly so unsure of himself? “Of course I do. Would I really be locked in here with you if I didn’t want you, Ali?” He replied, reaching over a hand and tucking a strand of Mustafa’s hair behind his ear.

_Oh._ Oh, that was terribly sweet. Mustafa's hand ghosted around his ear, where Neville's phantom fingers still tingled against the skin and down his neck. He felt a heady lust unwind in his stomach, curling downwards, rendering him nearly speechless. Almost.

"Mustafa," he whispered, moving into Neville's space, lining their bodies up, feeling himself against Neville like he never had before. "My name is Mustafa."

Mustafa pressed his lips to the dip on Neville's neck and shoulder, kissing hard, and slipped his hands carefully down Neville's side, feeling the curvature of his body under his shirt. When his hands settled around Neville's hips, he pushed forward, forcing Neville back against the door so their bodies could press deeply together.

  


     Neville licked his lower lip, chuckling softly. "Oh, is that your name, lad? Gee, I never knew--" He had started to tease him, though he was interrupted by Mustafa suddenly kissing his neck, a particularly sensitive area for him, and his breath hitched. He knew he couldn't show that Mustafa had found one of his weak points, so he chewed his lip, trying his damnedest to stifle any other noises that threatened to escape.

He wrapped his arms around Mustafa's middle when he pressed their bodies together, holding him close. In the past, the only other times they had been this close was during matches. Never did he imagine that they would be in a situation like _this_.

  


     Why did Neville's arms around him feel so... _safe?_

Neville was his enemy. An evil man who used his aggression to hurt others and get what he wanted. But no one was ever truly evil, were they? Neville hadn't always been the King of the Cruiserweights. Mustafa knew Neville once was a doe-eyed, straight-laced competitor, who wanted to be a superhero and uplift others.

_That sounds familiar._

Mustafa shoved his hands up Neville's shirt to feel his skin as he pulled back to study the King's face. "You're divine," he murmured, eyes half-lidded, raking over the angles of Neville's face. He gyrated his hips forward, so Neville would know that Mustafa was hard- very hard. Again his teeth tugged at his bottom lip invitingly, a stilted inhale from the intoxicating friction.

  


     Neville smirked at his words, raising a hand and gently stroking Mustafa's cheek with his thumb while his other hand rested in the small of his back. He found himself gazing into Mustafa's lustful brown eyes, getting lost in them for a moment. Why hadn't he realized how entrancing they were before? He'd looked into them before when they were standing across from each other in the ring, but now that they were alone and not in a work setting, he felt like he was truly seeing them for the first time.

He let out a little gasp when he felt how hard Mustafa was, swallowing. The hand that had been on his back slowly trailed down a little further, resting it on Mustafa's ass and squeezing.

  


     "Oh, _now_ you're a tease?" Mustafa husked, smirking. Neville's skin was perfect under his touch, like a marble sculpture, and Mustafa simply couldn't continue to be coy for one second longer. "Come on, I thought you wanted to fuck me. I want you to fuck me."

Mustafa pressed his lips intensely to Neville's, desperate and rough. He was suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to care for Neville, to hold him, and kiss him into the long hours of the night, until they were both gasping and hazy, basking in a golden afterglow. But it couldn't be like that now, they had work in a few hours, and they were in the damn massage room of a public gym. If this had to be quick, so be it. Mustafa would take every drop of Neville he possibly could.

" _Come on_ , King," Mustafa murmured again, jerking Neville's hips into his own. "I'm all yours."

  


     Neville responded to the kiss with equal passion, nipping on Mustafa’s lower lip as he pulled away. Mustafa actually wanted Neville to fuck him. The thought alone was enough to make Neville’s heart race.

Neville took this opportunity to switch their positions, moving Mustafa so that he was pressed back against the door. “Once the show is over and we get back to the hotel, I’ll be sure to treat you the way you _deserve_ to be treated. For now, though...” Neville’s hands snaked down to Mustafa’s hips, fingers dipping just below the waistband of his pants.

  


     "Yes," Mustafa moaned in affirmation, as Neville took more control. He wasn't sure what deserved meant, if that was good or bad, but he didn't really care. Honestly, that dark, masochistic part of him prayed that it was a punishment. The thought alone was enough to send him dizzy. "Oh, _god, yes_."

Mustafa attacked Neville's neck again, this time licking and sucking- moaning against the flesh as he angled his hips into Neville's hands. "You feel so good," Mustafa blabbered, knowing he shouldn't talk so much- like he always did- but he couldn't help it. Not when he was at the mercy of his dark angel. "This is crazy, isn't it? This has to be insane. _Nnh_. God, your hands are so lovely. You feel- _ah_ \- oh, _oh_ my god." 

  


     Neville gasped when Mustafa started sucking at his neck, moaning softly. Something about the way he was rambling was so damn _cute_ — Neville looked forward to hearing the things he would say when he was right about to cum. The thought excited him.

Neville took things a bit further by slowly tugging down Mustafa’s pants, letting out a little awed sigh when he saw his cock. He took his length into his hand, gauging Mustafa’s reaction as he did.

  


     Mustafa hissed gently as cold air hit his erection, followed by a loud moan that ripped from his throat as Neville took hold of him. "Oh god, oh my _god_ , Neville, _wow_." Mustafa threw his head back, eyes glazed, slack jawed- just.. savouring the feeling for moment. How did he feel so good, just with a simple, uncomplicated touch?

"I always- _nn_ \- enjoyed our matches," Mustafa groaned, dropping his head forward to kiss Neville's cheek, kneading fingers into skin under his waistband. He dug his nose into that curly hair, breath hot and voice thick as he continued. "You throwing me around, making me hurt, making me beg. Dragging me across the floor." The last part came out in a low, erotic growl, right into Neville's ear. " _I loved it, King_."

  


      _Exactly_ the reaction that Neville had been hoping for. Almost tantalizingly slow, Neville began to move his hand up and down his shaft. "Oh, I enjoyed all of our matches too, _Mustafa_. I loved when I would lock you into the Rings of Saturn, and you would whine as you struggled to break free..." His little whimpers had sounded like music to Neville's ears then. Now that he knew how much Mustafa _loved_ punishment, he would have to remember to include some particularly vicious moves on the off chance that they ever faced each other again...

  


     "O- _Oh_ ," Mustafa whined as Neville said his given name like that, pressing his face deeper into the side of Neville's head. He smelled like sweat, musk and a distant fragrance of hair product. All Mustafa's senses were being completely overloaded and he felt hot, as if someone had turned on a heater in the room.

Frantically, Mustafa pulled his sleeveless workout shirt off and cast it aside. His body weight fell back against the door as Neville continued to work him. "God, you're good at this," Mustafa breathed, craning his neck up. When he stared back to Neville, he was displeased with how clothed he was. Mustafa tugged disobediently at the hem of Neville's shirt. "Th-This off," he moaned, "Please, I want to see you. You're s- _hnnn_ \- so hot, I want to- _ah_ \- see all of you."

  


     Neville watched as Mustafa took his top off, following the shirt with his eyes as it was tossed to the floor before looking back to Mustafa. He always wore a shirt when he wrestled -- Neville had never really taken the chance to look at his bare torso before, not even when in the locker room, and _God_ it was beautiful. Why had it taken him so long to pay attention to him?

"Well, since you asked so nicely..." Neville took a break from touching Mustafa to take a step back, taking his shirt off and tossing it down next to Mustafa's. "There. How's that?"

  


     Mustafa caught his breath from the small respite, and let his eyes fall onto Neville's shirtless physique, studying it with a wide-eyed expression. It shouldn't be as staggering as it was, Mustafa saw Neville with his shirt off all the time- _wrestled him_ in less. But of course this was different, they weren't trying to kill each other, they were alone, being intimate with each other. _And thank god for that_ , Mustafa thought, happily.

"Neville, you look so good," Mustafa said, and reached his hand out to touch the ridged abdomen of Neville's stomach, allowing himself a moment to explore and admire. Mustafa leant down to kiss along one of his wide pecs, tongue teasing over the nipple. "Perfect, you're perfect," he muttered pleasantly into the skin, hands sliding down from Neville's shoulders to his biceps, to the inner crook of his elbows. "Do you have _any_ idea what you're doing to me right now?"

  


     Neville let his eyes flutter shut for a moment, a pleased hum escaping his lips. "You like praising your King, huh?" He said as he raised a hand and tangled it in Mustafa's hair, giving it the slightest tug when his tongue swept over his nipple. "You're such a _good boy_ , you know that? You know just what to say..."

When he opened his eyes, he looked down towards Mustafa's hard cock. "Hmm, I can see quite clearly what I'm doing... And I can also tell you what I'd _like_ to do to you...~"

  


      _Fuck._

Mustafa froze as Neville called him a 'good boy', and a shudder went right down his spine, warmth pooling in his cock, making him stifle a groan. His chest heaved in great breaths now, his heart beating near painfully against his ribs. 

If he'd ever entertained the thought of a sexual encounter with Neville in his subconscious before (maybe once or twice, in a dream), he never expected the emotionalism to be so profound. He expected it to be quick, rough, _brutal_. But this was.. this was... 

Whatever it was, it left him strangely weak, vulnerable, like putty in the King's hands.

Mustafa dropped to his knees, spreading his fingers back around to Neville's ass and admired the feel of it under his hands, until he was practically glowing with reverence. He brought his nose barely an inch from the bulging material of Neville's pants, letting his bottom lip drop slowly, tongue creeping out, lingering only millimetres away.

"Yes," Mustafa said, in a small voice, breath hot over Neville's erection. "I want to you to tell me what you'll do to me. Tell me what I have to do to be your _good boy._ " And Mustafa, finally, staring up fixedly, tongued Neville's erection. He swiped the firm, salty material with his wet mouth, making him groan into the taste.

  


     "Fuck..." Neville gasped, teeth digging into his lower lip, still gripping Mustafa's hair. He slowly relinquished this hold, however, and instead took to slowly stroking his head, feeling Mustafa's soft hair between his fingers. God, it really was as soft as it looked. "Mmm, keep this up and I'm gonna make you feel so good later..." He cooed. "I'll be sure to reward _my_ good boy for all his hard work..."

  


     "Nngh, god.." Mustafa's eyelids fluttered at the possessive insinuation. Neville's fingers sent little sparks across his scalp and Mustafa shut his eyes, trying not to moan too much- or too loudly- but that had never been an easy task for him, and especially not with the King of the Cruiserweights. "This feels good, right?" he checked in, opening his jaw to take Neville's clothed length deeper into his mouth, sucking hard on the bitter but pleasant material.

"What're you gonna do?" Mustafa asked in desperate tones, despite it being muffled by Neville's cock in his mouth. "Tell me, _please, tell me_ , King."

  


     “Oh, _yes_...” Neville assured, stroking Mustafa’s head a little rougher now. “ _Very_ good. You’re doing such a good job, Prince...”

“I have so much planned for you later...” He started, envisioning everything in his mind. “Once we get back to the hotel, I’m gonna strip you down, take my time, get to know every part of you. Maybe I’ll find some bruises from your matches.” His voice grew low, husky. “Maybe I’ll even add a few of my own...”

  


     The answering arousal to Neville's proposition was earth-shattering, he felt his mind slipping away and Mustafa had to sit back on his heels, tugging himself a few times to relieve the pressure. He took a shaky lungful of air and swiped the hair hanging over his eyes back over his head. This was something they needed to talk about, but not here.

"I want that," Mustafa said, his face sweaty and flushed. He was impressed he had the wherewithal to string together coherent sentences. "Very much, but I feel myself disappearing and if I do, there's no chance in hell we're going to win our match later." He averted his eye, a little embarrassed. "I really lose sense of reality sometimes- not capable of making rational decisions."

Mustafa palmed Neville's knee and slid his hand up the underside of his shorts, up his thigh. He glanced back, wryly. "You feel so good. You make me feel amazing."

  


     Neville patted Mustafa’s head, giving a small nod. “I get what you’re saying, lad. Once we _win_ our match later, I’ll say more, how about that?” He responded with a smirk. Nothing wrong with making him wait a little, was there?

“That’s all I wanted to do.” He leaned into Mustafa’s touch. “I’ll do anything if it means you’ll feel good...”

  


     Mustafa closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of Neville's hand upon his head. He opened them to catch the little smirk, and Mustafa couldn't help his mouth twitch upward. "Thirty minutes ago, you were my enemy, and now we're talking about you being my dominant. What a world," he mused at the hilarity. Mustafa hooked his hands around the back of Neville's knees and jerked them forward, in hopes of dragging Neville down onto him.

"Anything to make me feel good?" Mustafa murmured, with a wicked smile. Gesturing his eyes down to his still hard erection. "Then you're not going to blue-ball me before I have to work, are you?"

  


     “Hmm, funny how things work out, isn’t it?” It really was fascinating that they were even doing this. Neville had been seriously considering not showing up at this gym due to how much he hated Mustafa and the concept of them being a team. _What a difference 30 minutes can make._

Mustafa got what he wanted, and Neville dropped down on top of him. Some of his hair had fallen into his face, and he pushed it back, eyes glinting with lust. “I wouldn’t dare do that to my Prince...” Neville said as he took hold of Mustafa’s length once again. “My sweet, sweet Prince...”

  


     "Mm, yes, please," Mustafa whispered, and he pushed their faces together again, kissing Neville's lips and the corner of his mouth, running his tongue along the inside of his lower lip. "Agghh, _god_ ," Mustafa moaned as Neville grabbed ahold of him again, intensity shooting through him, like fireworks.

Mustafa's hands slowly ran up Neville's thighs, bunching around his shorts, over his hips, up his chest and around his neck, before he tugged them closer together. God, their bodies just slot together so perfectly, didn't they? 

" _Hn_ , o- oh, King. That's.. _good_. S-shit, oh, fuck, I-I'm," Mustafa said, and cupped Neville's face firmly, pressing feverish kisses to his lips. It wasn't going to take too much longer, he was so fucking close... "What's my name?" Mustafa held tight, gasping the words against Neville's temple. " _What's m-my name, Neville_?"

  


     God, Neville just _adored_ the way Mustafa was reacting to everything he did to him. Knowing that _he_ was the reason why he was making those sounds, why he was feeling so good, made his heart race.

Neville let out a soft moan into the kiss, tugging on Mustafa’s lower lip as he pulled away. “Mustafa,” he replied as he leaned in again, pressing a few kisses along Mustafa’s jawline as he continued to pump him. “ _Mustafa_ ,” he said again, annunciating every syllable.

  


     "Yes," Mustafa said, raggedly, the sound of his own name on Neville's tongue ringing in his ears. "Yes, yes- _O-OH, KING_."

Mustafa moaned. Moaned as if they were in the privacy of his own house and not a wall away from a room that could be filled with people. He pushed up against Neville, body bucking wildly, shaking, as he dug his fingers into the skin of Neville's neck. Hot cum spilled between them, over his chest, a little leaking over his collarbone.

After a moment, Mustafa slumped back against the floor, breathing rapidly. His mouth screwed into a little smile, and then held an arm over his eyes, giggling bashfully, just at the ridiculousness of it all.

  


     "Hmm..." Neville let out a satisfied sigh, so damn proud of himself for causing Mustafa to cum like that. He hadn't expected him to be so loud, though Neville definitely wasn't complaining. There was the tiniest part of him that wanted people to hear, to be jealous that someone that wasn't them had cum by the King's hand.

Neville looked down at some of the cum that had landed on his fingers, and he lifted those digits to his lips, slowly licking them as he stared down at Mustafa. "What're you laughin' at?" He asked with a wry smile.

  


     Mustafa peeked from under his arm just to see Neville lick semen from his fingers. The sight of it made him shudder, and he thought about how much he wanted those fingers in his own mouth. "You're kinky," Mustafa commented, still so profoundly turned on.

"I'm laughing because now you have to buy me lunch," Mustafa said, lips spreading into a devilish grin. He wrapped his fingers around the curls of Neville's hair, playing with it gently. "A hearty meal too, I've expended a lot of energy today."

  


     Neville continued to lick at his fingers, making as much of a show out of it as he could. He stopped abruptly when Mustafa mentioned lunch, however, frowning and scrunching his brows together. "Son of a bitch, I was hoping you'd forget about that..." He complained, leaning into Mustafa's touch. _Here I was thinking that one good orgasm would have caused him to forget completely..._

  


     Mustafa smirked. "I have a perfect memory when it comes to food," he said, flicking Neville gently on the tip of his nose. He twisted his wrist to look at his watch, eyes widening a little. "Oh, crap. I think we ran a little overtime.."

 _Just blow off work- go back to the hotel and blow him instead,_ the devil on his shoulder told him, and Mustafa sighed, waving over his shoulder as if to brush the darker side of his conscience away.

  


     Neville sputtered when Mustafa flicked at his nose. Most people would get knocked out for doing something like that. Mustafa, on the other hand... Neville could make an exception for him.

“Did we?” Neville leaned over to the look at the time on Mustafa’s watch. He had been so focused on getting Mustafa off that he didn’t even realize how much time had passed.

  


     “We did,” Mustafa snorted, “We might even need to grab that lunch to go.” He untangled himself from Neville and searched around for something to clean himself with, and successfully found wet wipes in a drawer. He flung a few Neville’s way, then wiped himself down and carefully disposed of the evidence. Not like they were ever going to come back to this gym, best to have a shower and get the hell out of there.

“Shower, food, maybe a nap, pick up an easy W, _and then_ , delicious sodomy,” Mustafa checked off his fingers, then wiggled his brows at Neville. He was glowing so much, sunshine was practically beaming out of his ass. 

_A monumental day, indeed_ , Mustafa smiled to himself.

Monumental was an understatement.

**Author's Note:**

> Some OOC Highlights, because Why Not:
> 
> [4:26 PM] heelnev: ((IDK WHY IM CRYIN IN THE CLUB RN))  
> [4:29 PM] sophie: ((WHAT t HE FUCK ))  
> [4:30 PM] heelnev: (( _ **AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA**_ ))
> 
> [2:09 AM] sophie: ((Sorryyy, never shuts up mustafa is my kink))  
> [3:46 AM] heelnev: ((that is an Excellent Kink To Have))  
> [10:05 AM] sophie: ((uGH I CAN HEAR HIM SAY IT musta....fa))  
> [10:05 AM] heelnev: ((I LOVE THE WAY NEV SAYS HIS NAME SM))  
> [10:06 AM] sophie: ((SAME))
> 
> [1:14 AM] sophie: ((me discovering more of mustafas kinks like :| ))  
> [1:39 AM] heelnev: ((KDJDKDHSJ he’s a Kinky Boy™️))


End file.
